#and he bleaches his hair and cuts it short because James always wore it long and dark and he pierces his ears bc James would never do that

[mitskijamie]

Casting went crazy jamie looks so much like georgie

I KNOW RIGHT!!!!!! He's mummy's boy 🥰🥰

#ask #i feel like people always compared Jamie to Georgie when he was little but once he got older and they grew apart and he got closer to James #everyone always told him he looked like James #and he just kind of internalized it like he's been hearing it since he was 12 years old and he has his name anyway so it makes sense #of course he has his face. they're the same person #and he bleaches his hair and cuts it short because James always wore it long and dark and he pierces his ears bc James would never do that #etc etc #but after roy and keeley meet georgie like at the cocktail bar or whatever roy is like 'you look Just like your mum' #and Keeley's like 'yes oh my god you're identical' #and it's the first time he's heard that in years and he's tipsy and it's been a crazy emotional week so he just starts bawling

[tisfan]

Hi, tisfan! I'm going to drop a prompt/request in here, feel free to ignore it! I know you're busy, and you have so many stories already! Anyhow, I'm reading a fic where Bucky is...well, fixing his hair (you know, brushing, blow-drying, etc), because hair just isn't that pretty without some serious maintenance. And now I really, really want a fic where Tony is helping Bucky with his hair. Like a comfort thing (or a sex thing, I like both). If you feel like it. Thank you!

justalurkr said: Headcanon: Bucky keeps his hair long because Steve's hair is still going strong with the 40s vibe. Clint' s hair sorely tests his resolve, tho!

gothgalahoy said: Are you still taking prompts? If so, here's a WinterIron one. They're both touch starved. One of them figures it out during matinance on Bucky's/James' arm. Epic cuddles and feels ensue.

A/N: So, we’ve got a three-for-one fic here; it’s about 3,000 words, tho, so I don’t feel too bad about it... WinterIron, pre-slash, pining Bucky, touch-starved, Tony helping, hair care, panic attacks, etc.

Bucky’s Bad Hair Day

There was nothing wrong with long hair, Bucky told himself. Men woretheir hair long these days, just as often as women wore their hair short.

Hydra had let his hair grow; thick and luxurious, because for thebetter part of the fifties and sixties the Asset had angry, red scars on hishead and they were both noticeable and memorable. They’d faded over time, butby the time they did, his handlers didn’t bother to look at him anymore with aneye toward fashion. As long as the Asset was relatively clean, no one seemed tocare.

The scars, when he could see them through the thick hair, weresilvery and flat, these days. It wouldn’t draw so much attention, if he cut hishair shorter.

And it wasn’t like anyone had said anything -- much -- to himabout it. Steve had ruffled his hair one time, and said he looked like a mop.But that was Steve, and he was always being a little punk, even though hewasn’t that little anymore.

Natasha had fingered the ends of his hair at one point, scowling,and then a box of hair care products had shown up in his next delivery. Oiltreatments and mend-the-ends care, and enough goo and gel and spritzes to makeup a haberdashery counter display.

So, there was nothing wrong with long hair and Bucky was prettymuch okay with that.

Right up until Barton got a haircut.

Bucky was used to Barton being a little on the scruffy side; notquite the “murder hobo” look that Bucky himself sported. (He’d lost track ofwhere the murder hobo comment started, but someone had said it, and theneveryone had said it, and Bucky just gave people his murder glare and went on withhis life. He really, most of the time, did not care what other people thoughtabout him.) Barton had a mop of sandy-blonde hair, scruff on his chin and healways, always missed a patch of bristles on one side of his jaw or the other.He was frequently unshowered, sometimes went for days at a time in the samepair of broken-string sweatpants, and often had his shirt on inside out.

Avengers… were not fastidious people, really. If you could fightwhen you were in your combat gear, you could lounge around in the common roomin a terrycloth bath towel with cucumber slices on your eyelids. No judgements.(Tony. And yeah, okay, so Bucky was totally judging that. Mostly. Excepthe had to admit it did wonders for the bags under Tony’s eyes from lack ofsleep and if Bucky borrowed some cucumber slices for himself once in a while,no one had to know about it.)

So when Barton came in with his new haircut, Bucky noticed.

He was cleaned up, his hair was gelled to perfection and the sideswere spiked and weirdly soft-seeming. Bucky… had the weirdest urge to rub hishand over Barton’s head and test the texture of that hair.

And just as he was thinking that, Tony came into the room, one ofhis unbelievably vile smoothies in one hand. He wrapped his lips around thestraw and took a deep suck from the cup. Bucky tracked Tony’s every movement --helpless against his obsession with the man -- watching the flex of hisbackside as he walked, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled and said,“still the prettiest, Legolas.” Tony ran one bronzed hand through Barton’shair, smiled even wider, and did it again.

Barton stropped his head against Tony’s hand, practically purringlike a kitten. “You think I look hot?”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, lowering his sunglasses to give Bartonthe once-over. Slowly. “You look like a billion bucks, and believe me, I knowwhat that looks like.”

(more below the cut, or catch the whole thing on A03)

Barton chuckled and looked down at himself. “Feel like at leastfifty-thousand, so it’ll have to do.”

“I’d totally do you,” Tony assured him. He grabbed a banana fromthe basket, rubbed Barton’s head one more time. “Save some kisses for me.”

“You got it, sugar-daddy,” Barton said.

Bucky watched, dumb-struck, until Tony was out of the kitchen andback into the elevator. What the fuck was going on?

“Maybe I should get a haircut,” Bucky mused, fingering the ends ofhis long hair, then flipping them out of his face. He wondered if Tony wouldrub his hair like that, if it were short and spiky and soft.

You cannot teach fearlessness with terror.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t… it shouldn’t have been… Bucky was notafraid.

The barber shop had a row of windows that let Bucky look insidewithout actually approaching the counters or barbers. There were shiny silverchairs that tipped backward to let a customer get a shampoo. Another row ofchairs had loud dryers where women and men alike sat, flipping throughmagazines or poking at their phones while they waited for their hair to dry, orfor various chemicals to finish processing.

Bucky’s overly sensitive nose caught the whiff of harshastringents and bleach, colors and curl-relaxers. It was overpowering, evenoutside, making his eyes sting and the inside of his nose flare and ache.

His ear caught the delicate sound of scissors, metal against hair,snip snip. The buzz of clippers, the harsh burr of hairdryers. The clickand hiss of flatirons.

One stylist thumped the chair’s pedal a few times. Another leanedher client back into the sinks and the woman under the cape and towels moanedwith almost sensual pleasure.

Bucky shivered all over, his flesh crawling.

Too many people. Too close to him.

Sharp blades; Bucky could identify dozens of potential weapons.

He… could not do this.

There were too many risks; not to himself. If it was just his ownsafety, his own comfort, maybe he could manage it. He’d done so much worse,allowed it to happen.

You couldn’t teach fearlessness with terror. But you could become numb to fear. There was nothing else thatHydra could have done to his body, to his mind, that was half as terrible aswhat he’d already experienced.

It wasn’t what it would do to him. Bucky could lie to himself ifit gave him comfort. But it was also what Bucky might do, if someone came tooclose to him with those scissors. If they tilted him back. If… if…

He…

He might hurt someone.

Bucky clung to that idea. And then turned away.

The one time, Bucky thought, that he wanted to get into theelevator, go straight up to his floor and take refuge in the back of hiscloset, would be the one time that Tony would stick an arm in between the doorsbefore they closed and cram himself in the elevator, a whole horde of paparazzinot inches behind his heels.

“Hey there, Ghost in the Shell,” Tony said, punching the buttonfor the common floors with unnecessary force. “What a day, don’t tell me, I’lltell yo-- are you all right?”

And Bucky was just weak enough to admit the truth.

“No.”

Tony blinked at that, brown eyes full of worry, that subtle flareat the corners. He opened his mouth, maybe to make some sort of smart-assedcomment, and at this point, Bucky would welcome it. Would welcome the spark ofheat, the frisson of anger. Instead, what he said was, “Is there anything I cando?”

“I… need a haircut,” Bucky confessed. He shook his head, lettingthe long tresses swing, illustrating the need. “An’ I can’t… I jus’ can’t. Getin one of those chairs.” It hurt, confessing. Like pulling out his fingernails.Admitting it. He was the goddamn Winter Soldier and he couldn’t fuckin’ sit ina chair and let some harmless little gossipy woman cut his fucking hair. Heatbloomed over his cheeks, across the back of his neck.

“I couldn’t take a shower,” Tony said, apropos of nothing. Ormaybe it wasn’t quite nothing. “After Afghanistan. For months. Couldn’t… havewater in my face.”

“How’d… how’d you cope?”

“Badly,” Tony said. “Wouldn’t ask for help. Knew I needed it,but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Thought I could do it on my own.” He gave Buckya direct look. “And I know you can. But the thing is, you don’t haveto.”

Jesus fuck, did the guy mind-read, too, on top of everything?

“All ears,” Bucky said, “if ya got a suggestion.”

Tony flicked a quick look at him. “You trust me?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t not trust Tony, which was more than hefelt about most people. He and Tony, well, they’d already seen the worst ofeach other, hadn’t they?

“Come on,” Tony said. “Come up to my place, I have a set up from--well, it’s what I do, isn’t it? Change my environment to suit myself.”

The whole reason this had become a thing for Bucky was because hewanted Tony to touch his hair, to joke and flirt with him, the way he had withBarton, right? He trusted Tony not to hurt him. Trusted himself to not to hurtTony; never again.

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded.

Tony’s bathroom was some sort of miracle; huge, larger than thefreaking house Bucky had grown up in, nearly. There was a deep jacuzzi pool, asauna, a few different showers. One of those chairs that tipped back into asink and Bucky was frozen at the sight of it, until Tony lifted it, bicepsstraining, and moved it out of the room without even asking what was up withthat. Bucky loathed himself, mocked himself for being afraid of a goddamnchair, but he wasn’t about to deny that he felt worlds and away better with itgone.

Tony reached out, hesitated. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, roughly.

Tony fingered Bucky’s hair, rubbing one lock together. Tipped itup to inspect the ends. Peered at his scalp. “You’ve been taking pretty goodcare of it,” he said. “Bet Nat sent you one of those boxes of hers; I have onefor skin care. She seems to think my hands need to be soaked in moisturizertwice a day.”

The way Tony’s fingers felt, running over Bucky’s scalp, he wouldagree. Tony’s skin was like velvet, heavy and soft at the same time.

Bucky shivered, goosebumps scrawling over his head and down theback of his neck. Tony pulled back and Bucky reacted without thinking, grabbinghis wrist. “No, don’t…” he said. “That… feels good.”

Tony chuckled. “Well, I’ve been told I have magic fingers, in moreways than one. So, what are you looking at doing to your hair? I mean, rightnow it’s just kinda ragged. We could trim the ends up, make it all one length,just kinda get your toes wet, as far as the hair cutting business goes.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?”

Tony gave him a flat stare. “I built a new element in my workshop,I think I can give you a trim, Edward Scissorhands. I might not be able to getreal fancy, but if you can handle this, I have a hairdresser, and she doescall-ins.”

“Start slow,” Bucky said, nodding.

“Yep,” Tony said. “So, you can wash your hair, or just get it wet,or I can help you with that, whatever you need.”

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip. Tony had been so, so kind, andBucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask any further.

“My… back when I was a kid, my Ma washed my hair, bent over thesink,” Bucky said, hesitantly. There weren’t any bolts of fear or apprehensionwith that, just the faint, old buzz of annoyance when she got water in hisears, or sometimes it would drip down his back. And, of course, the oldimpatience for being a boy of eight or nine and having to be clean, some sortof anathema to his normal way of life. Stickball and paper-waxed horehoundcandies.

“I can do that,” Tony said. His hand was still in Bucky’s hair,fingers soothing on the back of his neck. “Might want to lose the shirt, and…yeah, suit’s probably not the best for that, gimme a minute.”

Which was how Bucky found himself on his knees in front of TonyStark, the back of his neck horribly exposed and vulnerable.

Except he kept waiting for the panic to rear up -- how was itpossible to have a panic attack about the possibility of having a panic attack?-- but it didn’t.

The water was warm, soothing, and Tony’s voice was constant andcalm in his ear. He didn’t talk about anything urgent, or even anythingimportant. A little bit about Edwin Jarvis, his father’s butler who’dpractically raised him, a couple of pranks he’d pulled in high school. Some ofhis past with Jim Rhodes, back at MIT. Good stories. From a simpler, happiertime.

The shampoo Tony used on him, working it through the long locks,smelled like Tony.

By the time Tony rinsed him out and tied a towel around thedripping mess, Bucky was almost completely relaxed, just the soft, warm feel ofarousal -- not even urgent, just a bittersweet thread of wanting that ranthrough his contentment -- keeping him awake.

Tony brought him into the dressing room, a huge showcase with afew dressers and clothing racks, but mostly mirrors. “I thought you might bemore comfortable if you can see me the whole time I’m near your head with apair of scissors.”

Bucky nodded, took the chair that Tony offered. He was shiveringminutely, and Tony kept a hand on his shoulder until he calmed.

Tony ran a comb through his hair, the various conditioners anddetanglers making that task ten times easier than it had been whenever Buckytried it. His hair was stupidly thick.

“I’m just gonna even it out here, okay?” Tony said, parting it alittle to the left, and then checking the length by running his fingers downit, standing just in front of Bucky and leaning back a little to look. He wasshirtless, as Bucky was, but Bucky hadn’t noticed the scarring on Tony’s chestbefore, where his arc reactor had been. The source, Bucky knew, of everythingthat had come after; Tony’s own missile that had nearly killed him, that he hadused to rise from the ash. Becoming Iron Man.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to rest his ear against that scar,listening to the heart underneath, feeling the heat of Tony’s skin. He didn’t.

Tony showed him a pair of scissors, sharp as they had to be forcutting hair, let Bucky feel the weight of them. They were a weapon, althoughit hardly mattered. Bucky’s entire body was a weapon, it wasn’t like one pairof blades was going to make a difference.

“You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

As a supersoldier, Bucky could hold his breath for about elevenminutes. He was pretty sure he stopped breathing as soon as Tony opened thescissors and remained in that state until Tony was done. He exhaled in a rushas soon as Tony stepped back, vision flecked with speckles of black and red,head spinning. Tony put the scissors down and was back to standing in front ofBucky, one hand on either shoulder.

“You okay?”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to do; he was… he thought he was okay, but…“Yeah,” he said, “but… stay?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. It wasTony’s room, if anyone would be leaving, it would be Bucky.

“Touch-starved,” Tony said. “Check. You know that’s a thing,right? Neurologists have discovered that skin-to-skin contact is vital tomental health.” The whole time he was talking, Tony’s fingers stroked downBucky’s shoulders, raising trails of gooseflesh in their wake. “Physicalcontact is necessary to being human, almost as much, if not moreso, than food.There’s nothing wrong with it; that you can even miss it shows that you’restill a person inside.”

Bucky found himself suddenly on the floor, arms around Tony’swaist who was sprawled, undignified. “It’s okay,” Tony repeated, and Buckypressed his cheek to Tony’s belly, listening to his heart racing under hisskin. “It’s all right.”  

They sat that way for a good twenty minutes, Bucky letting hishand wander, touching as much of Tony’s skin as he could reach, his back, hiship, across his shoulder, let his finger trace the lines of Tony’s face. Whenthe pad of his index finger brushed Tony’s mouth, his lips pursed and hepressed a kiss gently to Bucky’s fingers.

Finally, Bucky was able to get himself under some sort of control,some semblance of sanity. He was blushing, furiously embarrassed, ashamed ofhimself and his weakness. “Tony, I’m…”

“Don’t say sorry, honeybunch,” Tony said. “Consider it doctor’sorders. We can make it part of your recovery. One hairwash and cuddle sessionevery few days. Do you a world of good.”

Bucky ducked his chin. “You don’t gotta take care of me.”

Tony put his finger against Bucky’s jaw and gently and lifted hisface. “It’s good for me, too. Helps me, knowing I’m making a difference. If youneed it, I’m… honored. To help.”

Bucky considered that for a long moment. “Okay… okay.”

“Then I’ll see you in --” Tony glanced down at his wrist, whichdidn’t contain a timekeeping device at all “-- tomorrow, same time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice rough. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

#prompts #wineriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #hair washing #cuddles #touch starved #panic attacks #celtic7irish

[minusthemurderfantasies-blog]

“Listen, there is something you gotta know before we go in there.” Erik warned. “I should’ve told you this a long time ago…” My thoughts raced in that pause.  Oh god that pause.  What could he have to tell me?  Was he married? Was this not his apartment? Was he homeless? Did he have a secret Joe Dimaggio bobblehead collection?  Oh god I don’t even know who Joe Dimaggio is? Or was? Is he dead? Can I google that without him noticing?  He saved me from my breakdown.  “How do I say this? My roommate, he’s uh, he’s… he’s a serial killer.”

A euphoric rush gripped my body and I started laughing harder than was socially acceptable.  I managed to regain my composure and reply, completely ignoring his stone-faced expression.  “Geez, you had me worried.  It’s no big deal, people have bad roommates.  I still want to meet him.”

“No you don’t understand, he is legit a serial killer.  He murders people.  What am I doing? I shouldn’t be getting you involved.”  Erik started to walk away from the door.  I put my arm out to block him.

“Nope, you’re not getting out of this that easy.  After all you’ve told me about your roommate I am going to meet him.”  He gave out an exasperated sigh and turned back towards the cheap wooden door.

“Your funeral,” he mumbled to himself. “Let’s just hope not for real this time.”

The lock turned with a rusty squeak and the door swung open and revealed the most stereotypical apartment owned by two twenty-something men.  An off-green sofa sat in the middle of the room in front of a coffee table littered with comics, magazines, and small origami figures.  The couch was flanked on either side by two chairs which could only be described as matching if you completely forgot what matching meant and were also blind.  One was a large recliner style leather seat and the other was a worn wooden chair that one would see in a museum of the earliest American colonists.  Both were probably found on a curb and hauled up to the apartment.  The seating trifecta was opposed by a large CRT TV.  You know the kind that would make your hair stand up and could transmit messages from the spirit world?  Their small kitchenette area was barren and most likely unused.  One wall of the apartment was mostly dusty windows with a poor view over the city.

The most interesting part of the room was the man standing at the other end, tossing darts at a board with casual accuracy.  He looked like the first search result for the word “hipster.”  He looked like he only listened to bands with more syllables in their name than fans.  He looked like the one to bring a complicated board game to a party and insist that everyone play it, no matter how little sense it made.  He did not turn when we entered. “Hey man.  Back so soon?  Did things not go well with whatsherface?”

Erik cleared his throat.  “Actually, Christine is here with me.”  The man spun and froze like a kid with a stutter at a spelling bee.  He raised his hand in a wave and his mouth hung open.  Erik continued, “This is my roommate, James.  James, this is Christine.”

I smiled and shook the embarrassed James’ hand.  “Nice to meet you, James.”

“Nice to meet me.”  Yep, this smooth operator was totally a serial killer.  “Oh wait, no, I mean, uh… oh hey, you’ve got something on your hand.”  I looked down and sure enough there was a red stain where his thumb had been.

Erik, pointed at the door that the dart board hung from.  “There’s a bathroom right over here, you can clean up in there.”  James stepped aside as I hurried into the bathroom without looking back.  What did I get the mark from?  I must have spilled something on me during dinner.  Such a great first impression.  I walked in and closed the door tightly behind me.  Oh god, this room smelled like death poorly covered by expired air freshener.  Okay, take it slow Christine, it’s not that bad.  And I’m sure Erik doesn’t care if I look a little dumb.  I looked into the sink.  Outside I heard James shout, “Wait, no!”  The sink was filled covered in a dark red liquid congealed into globbed.  At the drain lay an oval object covered in the red.  Oh god, is that… a human ear?  The world focused in on that ear.  My ears rang, my knees wobbled.  I did not hear the scream start to escape my throat, I did feel the gust of wind from the door flying open, I only smelt the chemical-scented rag which was clasped over my mouth and nose, I only saw the world go dark.

I awoke to shouting.

“What was that, James?!  You can’t just chloroform my girlfriend!  We have rules about this!”

“No, we have rules about killing your girlfriend.  Chloroforming is okay.”

“Chloroforming is not okay!  That shouldn’t have to be said.  It’s common sense.  Where did you even get chloroform?”

“It’s a mix of rubbing alcohol and bleach.  Look, I did what I had to, if she screams people ask questions and it gets bad.  What was she doing here anyway?”

“It is a perfectly normal thing for a guy to bring his girlfriend to meet his friends.  What was an ear doing in the sink?”

“You consider me your friend?” James’ tone was candid and slightly proud.

“Only because you keep killing the rest of my friends and girlfriends.”

“Name one time.”

“Lauren.”

“That’s not my fault, she wore orange on the sixteenth!”

“Her dress was peach!”

“Fine, name three more.”

“Assad, Cindy, Greg.”

“Assad took up two parking spaces, and you have no proof that I am to blame for Cindy’s disappearance.”

“What about Greg?”

“Greg was a dick, I did you a favor there.”

“Greg taught underprivileged kids music.”

“Yeah, but did he have to be so pretentious about it?  Oh look at me, helping the children, I’m so righteous.”

“You’re a monster.”

“I’m a monster that pays rent.”

“Really, you’re bringing this up now?”

“Yeah, yeah I am.”

“Okay how about the fact that there was a human ear in the sink.  What happened to keeping it out of the apartment.  Rule seven James, rule seven.”

They stopped shouting when they noticed me watching them.

Erik started, “How you feelin?”

“What. The. Fuck. Erick?  ‘How you feelin?’  Really?  Is that be best you can do.  There is a dismembered body part in that bathroom and you want to know how I’m feeling?  I’m feeling scared, I’m feeling confused, I’m feeling pissed the fuck off.”

“I… I tried to warn-”

“Oh no, don’t you dare tell me you told me so.  I thought you were kidding and you didn’t stop me.  How could you bring me here?  How could you live with this freak?”

“Don’t call me that,” James growled.

“What, you don’t want me to call you a freak?  I’m sorry, I should be more considerate of the fucking murderer.  You are a sick, psychotic freak.  So what, you’re going to kill me too now?  Am I just going to become another ear in your sink?”  I glared at Erik with disgust. “Is that why you brought me here?  Am I just another victim?”

“It’s not like that Christine.  We made rules for him, he doesn’t kill anyone I know.  He only kills bad people.”

“Oh great, he’s like fucking Dexter.  And from what I hear his track record isn’t too good with that anyway.”

“That was before the rules.  Trust me, you’re safe.”

“Trust you?”  I shook my head in disgust and stood up.  “Goodbye Erik, have fun in jail.”  I strode towards the door.  I felt air rush pash my hair and heard a loud thunk as a knife embedded itself in the door.

“Sit down,” James commanded, his hand already grabbing at one of the knives at his belt.  I obeyed.  “Now shut up and listen.”  Erik tried to intercede but James silenced him with a glare.  “You are not a victim.  As far as I am concerned you are a friend.  Your protection continues until that ceases to be true.  Now going to the police and turning us in is not something a friend would do.  If I see you climbing the steps to the precinct, you will be dead before you reach the top; if I hear you calling the cops, you will be missing by the time the operator picks up.  Do you understand me?”  I nodded, too scared to breathe.  “You have learned a lot today, and I don’t expect you to like all of it.  However, you will live with it.  Understood?”  This time I managed to whisper a meek affirmation.  “Good, well in that case I am going to bed.  Erik, would you please drive Christine home?  Good night and good luck.”  And with that James retreated into one of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Erik and I did not speak the entire drive back to my apartment.  The silence was too thick to be cut.  The dark of the city was oppressive.  I shrank with each shadow and rejoiced in the light.  That car ride may have been the longest of my life.  Finally, like hikers summiting Mount Everest, we reached my apartment building.  I unbuckled and fled the car without waiting for Erik.  I locked the door, slid the bolt, and checked each window securely.  When I was ensured of my isolation I fell upon my bed into a deep sleep.

I awoke beneath my sheets refreshed and anew.  Free from the nightmare that plagued the night before.  That’s what it had to be right?  A nightmare?  I would tell Erik all about it today.  He would enjoy it, he always enjoyed hearing about my dumb dreams.  My relief was short lived.  Its end was marked by my heart stopping for several beats.  There upon my dresser, something that was not there the night before.  I approached the dread object like a parent in a horror movie approaching their child’s crib.  Sitting amongst frames filled with family and sanguine memories was a leatherbound journal.  Laying on top of the journal was a note:

“Sorry for snapping last night.  It’s going to be rough, but here’s a friend that you can talk to

-James”

    And that was the beginning of my friendship with a serial killer.